


Skipton Sinclair and His Kensington Urchins; Together with some Digressions of The Extended Family

by Skimblyshanks (The_gadabout_gander)



Category: Cats - Andrew Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Alternate Universe-Human, Alternate Universe-Victorian, Characters will be added as they appear - Freeform, Flashbacks, Gen, Gus and Asparagus are separate characters, Implied/Referenced Character Death, On Hiatus, Past Character Death, Plot is going to take its time to get started, Pre-Canon, Skimble has frequent small flashbacks, Skimble is mentally unwell, Skimble thinks about death a lot, and relationships, including Archive warnings, intentional ooc, possibility of suicide is briefly implied, tags will be updated with the fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24821341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_gadabout_gander/pseuds/Skimblyshanks
Summary: In September of 1900, Skipton Sinclair re-enters the world after a decade in isolation. Lots has changed already, and it's set to change even more when a pair of young street rats pickpocket their way into his life, setting him on a path he never could have prepared for.
Relationships: Asparagus & Etcetera (Cats), Asparagus & Gus the Theatre Cat (Cats), Asparagus & Skimbleshanks (Cats), Asparagus/Jellylorum (Cats), Etcetera & Jellylorum (Cats), Etcetera & Skimbleshanks (Cats), Jellylorum & Gus the Theatre Cat (Cats), Jellylorum & Skimbleshanks (Cats)
Kudos: 11





	1. Introductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I don't really have too much to say, other than I hope you'll stick around for this thing, because it'll take a while! Oh! And that this starts 10 years before "canon." 
> 
> I'll specify character name changes as they appear, so for our first chapter:
> 
> Skimbleshanks-Skipton Sinclair, Age 35  
> Asparagus (Jr)-Angus Sinclair II(goes by Angus), Age 39  
> Jellylorum-Julie-Anne Sinclair(Née Lorraine), Age 36  
> Asparagus (Sr)-Angus Sinclair (goes by Gus), age ~62  
> Etcetera-Celeste Sinclair(sometimes goes by Cettie), Age 6

It was on the twenty-third of September, 1900, that one Skipton Sinclair arrived at his family’s home on Victoria Grove to find the house empty and every door locked. He skirted the home’s perimeter, checking every first-storey window for any sign of give. There were, of course, no such windows to be found. As he struggled against the particularly stubborn window into the downstairs guest toilet, the wind whipped up neglected stinging nettle weeds against the hopeful intruder’s trousers, something he took as an omen. With a final groan, the man gave up his attempts at entry, offering the house an obscene gesture from under his Ulster. Skipton had arrived from High Street Kensington Station over an hour ago, anxious to finally return home. He debated walking back up to High Street, but remembered a distinct lack of open shops.

Nothing to do and No-one to see; neither were foreign to him after a decade in Berneray. Growing up, he’d always wondered why their family had left what was surely an island paradise for the mainland; he understood why, now. As a child, the idea of an island was inseparably tied to the tropics: surely, if there was an island, it would be warm and sunny. Surely, it would be a hidden paradise, one that the Sinclairs were gifted to own property on. The reality was much different. Often cloudy, often grey, and often cold, Berneray was always lonely.

There was, to start, the fact that he knew no-one. His Clan had left The Hebrides so long ago; no local could recall knowing a Sinclair after 1800. Then there was the language barrier. Skipton, though he carried a trace accent, a consequence of growing up surrounded by his father, could not speak any language of Goidelic origin. He’d grown up in London, surrounded by English families; there was no incentive to invite mockery by learning such a language. This did create issues while living on a Scottish island for ten years, though no-one, least of all Skipton, had planned on such a long absence. Every day there was dreary and long.

Yet before he had even noticed it, ten years had gone by in that way; alone with his thoughts, much in the same manner that time had passed now as Skipton sat in front of his home, lost in reminiscing. He rose to his feet, hurriedly dusting himself off as he looked round, fearing to be seen as some vagrant. Why were they taking so long to return? Surely whatever worship they were attending that morning had ended.

The wind began to pick up, yanking back-and-forth at the gate behind Skipton with a loud, painful, rusty screech, as though it was shooing the unwanted guest from its sight. Skipton started forward, long legs still locked from the chill and stagnation, eventually stumbling away from the noise with a huff. Well, with no sight of the family on the horizon, there was no use in staying put. He pulled the coat tighter, trying to make himself inconspicuous as he shuffled across the street. His Brogues wore gentle scuffs round the toes that only deepened as his feet slid past each other. At this rate, perhaps he’d to return to High Street, after all. It  _ would  _ offer a longer walk, returning the circulation to his legs faster than these occasional bursts of stilted motion as he waited in place for a party that wouldn’t come. Face to the wind, Skipton had already started shuffling off back the way he’d come when he saw the long-awaited procession.

The family was led by their Patriarch-to-Be, Wife and Daughter coming up behind, with the aged Head-of-Household bringing up the rear, determined even in his limp. They all seemed inconvenienced to say the least. They were only some metres away, but they clearly had yet to notice Skipton watching them from the corner. He held his silence, unsure how to properly garner their attention from across the street; compared to the procession, he looked sorely out of place.

Where his father and brother donned their Morning Dress, appropriately grey and dreary for a morning sat in Church, and the women wore their white gowns and cream jackets, accented with flashes of blue and yellow from the flowers on Sister-in-Law’s hat and niece’s sash, Skipton looked as though he’d just clocked out from the factory. He was covered, from his bunnet down to his brogues, in faded brown. All his clothes were worn, and the cotton duck trousers peeking out from the busted-hemmed bottom of his Ulster bore faint traces of mud, a remainder of futile hours spent attempting to scrub them clean. His brogues, of course, were as scuffed as they were before. Thankfully, the coat covered his shirt, the wrinkles on which would have made it embarrassingly clear that the man had slept in this ensemble for two days. No waistcoat was on his person either, yet another embarrassment averted by the coat.

Indeed, Skipton stood out quite notably from the very atmosphere of his old street; he wore the wrong kind of dull for the occasion, it seemed. For that reason, he’d sincerely hoped he would be noticed before they passed him by completely, but this seemed less and less likely as the family continued on. He was in quite a predicament now. Ten years in a strange pocket of the world had a way of tarnishing socialite senses of propriety, and even now Skipton was frantically scrambling to recall any respectable method of getting their attention from the corner. Failing to remember any way to avoid a faux-pas, and desperate not to be left behind, he let out a long, loud whistle (if any reader is curious, it was a whistle of the crassest kind; the type one might hear in rowdy sports events, or from the sleazier men who like what they see of the woman across the way). 

This finally proved successful, as the little girl whipped around to find the noise’s source, pulling urgently at her mother’s dress to get her attention as well. Her mother, a Mrs Julie-Anne Sinclair, looked over her shoulder in mild confusion, which quickly turned to excited shock as her eyes locked on Skipton, widening as the pieces fell back together. Breaking from the line and finally grabbing the focus of the men, Mrs Sinclair pulled up her skirts and ran across the street, a wide grin growing on her face.

"There you are,” she exclaimed as she ran, “We went looking for you at High Street Station! We waited around for nearly an  _ hour _ before they told us your connection had already emptied off.” Reaching her Brother-in-Law, Mrs Sinclair was quick to ensnare him in an embrace, spinning him round and dislodging his hat. He hurried to retrieve his bunnet while she stood a moment, incredulous. She grabbed Skipton’s wrists after he rose again, gaze firm but worried. “Now, I know you weren't that light the last we saw of you. When was the last time you ate?” Her tone was maternal, and something about her face told Skipton there was no way out of this one.

“There was the Coffee and Pork Pie right before I'd arrived this morning,” he offered, wringing his hat in his hands. The wind had quickly disturbed his hair, and his newly disheveled appearance welcomed a memory of the young man who left a decade ago. Then, Skipton was far more haggard; there had been no attempt to manage his hair, and untamed stubble had splotched his face. His eyes were dull and heavy-lidded, and his mouth, should it leave a neutral line, would only ever pull down into a variety of frowns and scowls. Now, though, Julie-Anne could see the part through his windswept hair. His eyes were wide and nervously gleaming. He'd shaved, rather meticulously, and his thin lips were now pressed into an uncertain smile.

She hadn't the heart to stay cross at him, and so instead Mrs Sinclair pivoted on her heels, pulling Skipton back to the family. Her husband regarded his brother with mild disdain, barely acknowledging him before turning back to face home. The younger Sinclair felt only a slight sting at his rejection; it was to be expected. He turned to join the procession’s end, but paused as a hand pulled on his coat. He turned to see his niece, staring up at him with curiosity and confusion as to who this stranger was. Here the sting grew; she was already six years old, there were so many milestones he'd already missed. All the same, Skipton offered her a smile before he continued on; a proper introduction could wait until they were all home and settled.

At his father, Skipton paused the longest. Gone was the man who carried himself tall and swaggering, proud to tell anyone and everyone how well he was raising his sons on his own. Gone was the man of the Theatre, the star of photographs and programmes. Left in his place was a frail old man, hunched over his cane, who didn't look like he could command a fly’s attention. Skipton gave him a nod, but his father moved to keep him from taking the rear. It would be pointless to fight on such a trivial matter, so Skipton acquiesced to the unspoken order, filing between the girl and the old man with a sigh.

As the train of five resumed their motion, something caught the eldest Sinclair’s eye. He hadn't noticed it before, the damned coat was still too long in the arms, but something was off about his son's hand. It took a few more flashes of clearer sight to realize just why: there were two bands of skin paler than the rest on his finger. He was missing his rings.


	2. The Great Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, it's been, uh, a month, huh? Literally. I'm planning to cut the time between chapter uploads in half from here on out, this was just a very...exposition-heavy chapter to get through while keeping it all somewhat natural in its delivery. No new characters to introduce this time! Just stay buckled for another chapter or two, then things will really get rolling!

There was no luggage waiting outside the home. Skipton was unbothered, though; he didn’t even notice their absence. No pausing at the gate, no pacing the perimeter, neither perturbed face nor piqued exclamation, nothing. He followed the line, empty-handed, into the house in silence. In seconds, the bunnet and coat were on the rack, displaying a wrinkled shirt and thinning suspenders to the world. There was a sigh behind him which Skipton chose to ignore; wrinkled shirts hadn’t been an issue in years, why should it matter at the very instant he set foot in the home? He glanced down to see his niece staring up at him, eyes wide and imploring.

“Mummy,” she called out behind her, “Who is this man?” She didn’t move, only turning when Mrs Sinclair steered her away by the shoulders.

“It’s time for your bath, dear,” she said, piloting the child to the stairway.

“But we just got home,” the girl whined, “I want to meet the man!’

“You’ll have plenty time to meet him after bathing,” she firmly restated.

“I’ll be right up,” Her husband shouted, putting up his own coat and hat. He turned to survey his brother, unimpressed. “Well, I see you dressed for comfort,” he said.

“When you’re sat for days on ferries and rails, Angus, you’ll find waistcoats and wrinkles are not top priorities,” Skipton replied, old bitterness quickly resurfacing. A tense silence consumed the entryway, then, neither brother in any hurry to break it. Angus stared, gaze boring into Skipton.

He really could have stepped out of a portrait taken ten years ago. Perhaps there was some hidden fountain of youth on Berneray, and that was why they’d endured a decade of silence and unknowns; Angus could almost forgive such selfishness if that were the case.

“Right,” Angus said, jaw clenched and shoulders squared in a subconscious display of intimidation, “I’m going upstairs. Call if you need anything.” A stiff pivot, some long strides, and Angus disappeared up the stairway. Skipton refused to look as he left, keeping his stare fixed to the very end of the corridor.

“Do you want to move to the Great Room?” A soft voice wafted over from behind. Skipton turned; he’d forgotten his father was still there, stood beside the rack. He gave the old man a curt nod.

* * *

Little had changed from the home Skipton had left behind. In The Great Room, the paper from his childhood still hung, tarnished and faded, tight against the wall in all its flocked glory. Slivers of untouched paper peeked out from behind the bookshelves, barely-visible flashes of garish pink and red. The rest, of course, had been darkened and muddled by nearly a century’s worth of smoke buildup. The large window at the end of the room was kept obscured by heavy curtains, with the upright piano situated as though to block any move to open them. Aside from the piano and the window, there was of course the hearth breaking up the bookcases, and the table and chairs a bit away, all turned as they were towards the same ash-coated stone fireplace.

Skipton glanced back over his shoulder, back down through the gallery to the foyer and the stairwell. If he strained his hearing just right, he could maybe make out the sound of water meeting porcelain-lined cast iron. The creaking of the old Morris chair drew Skipton’s focus back in front of him. The old chair was the only furniture that broke from the semi-circle round the table, placed instead at a true spectator’s angle, allowing the seated a range of vision spanning nearly the full breadth of the room, even offering a glimpse of the room just beyond, and it was in this chair that Skipton’s father now seated himself exactly as he had for years.

There was an instinctual pull to the piano, to the recitations of theory and Lulli that had built his childhood, a pull Skipton avoided. He moved instead to a chair in the ring around the table, rotating the seat so he could hold easier conversation with his father. There was silence, then; neither quite sure what to say. What was there to ask? Nothing could be broached without it undoubtedly prodding some nerve. Again, father’s eyes were drawn to the pale bands of skin marking absent rings. Of course, whatever his son did with his personal belongings was nothing of Gus’ business, but all the same he had to wonder what he’d done with them.

“House seems well,” Skipton broke the silence before Gus had a chance to form a question. He nodded in agreement, leaning back into his chair with a loud, comfortable creak.

“We manage,” he said, “we manage as best we can.” In a second, confusion swallowed the room; Skipton, unsure if this was some sort of covert criticism, and Gus, unsure what he could have managed to do wrong so quickly that his son was now staring at him like he was a madman.

“That’s good,” Skipton replied, looking with sudden interest to his hands, folded neatly in his lap. He seemed to be engaging in some sort of heated conversation with them, given the rapid-fire shifts in his expression: angry to regretful to good-humoured and right back to angry again, at least three cycles of this in thirty seconds’ time.

“How was the Old Home,” Gus asked softly, building up his will to push any further than the superficial.

“Dusty,” was the mumbled response. “And dirty. And wet. And broken.” There was no looking up from his hands, no shift in tone, no humour to Skipton’s answer; there was nothing to suggest any willingness to divulge the house’s state further. Gus sighed, letting the silence hang a tick longer.

“Was there enough room to store your things,” he gave it a second effort, an attack from a different angle; this proved successful, but only if he was trying to freeze his son in the middle of stewing. One could see the machinery catch on his father’s question, could see the glaze of realization that flashed ever-so-quickly across Skipton’s misleadingly neutral face. He stared just a bit too far above his hands, now looking as if he was searching the carpet for some sort of answer to the question.

“Yes,” was the tense, unconvincing answer that came from lips frozen centimetres apart. Skipton shook himself, urging himself to find something, anything more to say on the matter. He found it, after desperate seconds scrambling for words. “There was a wardrobe and a trunk, in the bedroom. I kept clothes there.” His head shot up in a burst of motion, a barely-hidden expression of embarrassed anger given away by the slight flare of his nostrils, the furrow of his brows, given away by the particular gleam that came from the way his cheeks pushed up and his mouth began to scrunch, it was a face Gus remembered well from Skipton’s younger days. It was the face of dropped measures, of reminded chores, of discipline being issued; it was that childish, petulant face a parent always wishes to forget until the moment it’s gone.

Gus couldn’t fight the playful smile that crept across his lips, seeing that little boy return. Skipton’s face slowly returned to a more tempered expression, though Gus was sure he saw the corners of his lips flick up, at least a little. The tension began to dissipate, and Skipton looked at the room beyond his hands. Gus was almost content in this peace, but his mind kept coming back to the rings. They were not trinkets to be so casually lost, and Skipton was not the kind to dispose of such things. And, Skipton’s clothes must still have been in the Old Home, he realized. Small eccentricities were suddenly stacking up before the old man: No rings, no luggage, and clothes that looked as though they’d been worn for months longer than the two days it took to arrive home. Had he been mugged? Had he drunk it all away?

These questions and more filled Gus’ head, concern growing harder and harder to stomach. He felt a need, an overwhelming desire to interrogate his son, to weasel the truth out of him, but he knew that to ask would be folly. The proof was right there before him: ask after the Old Home in any way, and Skipton shut down or panicked. Unless Gus wanted to stay in this seat for the next year, spitefully badgering any iota of an explanation out from resistant lips, he’d have to wait for the answers to drip out of their own accord. Yet, he kept circling back to the rings.

Perhaps it was natural to be curious. After all, he’d seen how important they were to Skipton; even in his drunkest days, the man wouldn’t even think of removing Victor’s ring. And the other…even with its particular brand of memories, Gus could only see Skipton parting with it in the most extreme of situations. To see bands of skin, still paler where the prized rings once were, was frankly unsettling, and something Gus couldn’t bear to let slide.

“The rings,” he croaked after minutes of an almost-serene silence, “they’re gone.” His observation was met with a gratuitous silent show of Skipton looking down to his hand, squinting, holding his hand up insultingly close to his face, then widening his eyes to a comical degree in ‘revelation,’ turning to his father in a poor attempt to appear shocked.

“Well,” Skipton said in faux-incredulity, “Would you look at that! Wonder where they could have rolled off to.”

“What did you do with them,” Gus asked, voice soft but resolute.

“Father, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re—”

“Yes,” Gus interrupted him, “You do. I’ve not gone completely daft, boy, I remember how you cared for those rings.” Gus knew he was likely throwing away his chance to get a straight answer, but that no longer mattered. Now, what mattered was making it known that he’d _noticed_ , and that he’d _keep right on noticing_ until he got an explanation. “Curse it all, boy, you treated them better than you treat yourself! They didn’t ‘roll off’ anywhere. No, something happened, and you’re going to tell me what.” He was firm in this statement, straightening in his seat with all the creaks that accompanied it. Gus’ eyes were locked on Skipton, waiting for him to make his next move.

Skipton stared straight through his father’s head, or, he tried to, anyway. Despite his efforts to lock his face in the most intimidating and silencing expression he could muster, Skipton was as weak to the paternal stare-down as any son. Honorable though his attempt may have been, Skipton still crumbled, dropping his head after only a few tense seconds.

“I burned them,” he mumbled, too quiet for Gus to hear. The old man leaned closer, not easing his stare in the slightest.

“Speak up,” he instructed.

“I burned them,” Skipton pulled his head up, voice taking on a very rough edge as it neared a shout. “I set a fire in the hearth and I threw them in! Are you happy now?” The room, for all its free space just beyond the seating, now felt very stifling. There was no fire lit, yet a thick smoke obscured Skipton’s vison, and though his gaze was levelled at his father, he saw nothing but blurred suggestions of form.

He froze, yet again smelling the stench of metal meeting flame, straining to see the grey out the window from his position fixed afront the hearth. The permanent sense of damp, of mould; of a soft and aromatic death, of his every day for ten years alone, all rushed back without a hint of warning. It was paralyzing, the dread. He’d never meant to do it, but there was nothing there for him to pull them out with; the only poker he found had been used as a brace for a tree in the back. On his more shameful side, he didn’t want them out, anyway. After all, in a matter of days he’d be back to the mainland, to questions and reminders of what drove him away. Skipton couldn’t bear the carry-round symbols any longer. All the same, his admission replaced what feelings of liberation and relief the action had provided with a resurgence of guilt. His hand dropped to his lap, feeling frantically for his pocket. It was still there, he noted with relief. Skipton let out a shaky breath, and with a couple heavy blinks, a light shake of the head, he was in The Great Room once again, looking back at his father’s concerned face.

Skipton had not been tranced longer than two or three minutes, but the haze that surrounded him was such that Gus’ questions could not penetrate. He’d known, from the moment it all started downhill, that nothing would truly resettle; he’d known, but he’d also hoped that with the distance, with the time, he’d at least be able to hold a discussion with Skipton without such episodes. Instead, however, his questions hung unanswered until the statue before him regained its movement, perhaps a moment longer still as he returned fully to the present. Still looking rather dazed, Skipton began refocusing his attention to the foreground. When enough time had passed, when Gus could see the haze lifted from his son’s eyes, he decided to press again.

“Why did…Why did you burn them,” Gus asked, leaning back into his chair, no longer expecting an answer.

Skipton felt a lump firm in his throat. It acted almost as a stopper, keeping anything more articulate than a whine locked beneath its barrier. He pushed through it, though, forcing out a half-hearted, “I haven’t the faintest.” Once again, he diverted his attention to behind his father, shifting his focus to the old Piano. He rose, succumbing at last to its pull.

Skipton ran his fingers along the lacquered fallboard, regarding the upright with an indecipherable expression. Days of weeks of years sat on the bench made up his childhood; until he’d begun school, his life seemed centered around the piano and his father’s lessons.

“You’ve kept it polished,” he remarked with mild surprise. When last he’d seen it, the instrument had accrued some layers of dust, though now it was pristine as ever.

“It’s being used,” Gus answered, “Your niece is learning.”

“From you,” Skipton asked, “And here I thought I was special.” He offered a light smirk, a playful peace offering that Gus gladly accepted.

“Oh, Lord, no! I’m retired from that life, boy.” He laughed, finally finding a cautious heartiness. “No, Julie-Anne has taken up that Mantle, and thank God she did!”

Skipton snickered in response. Julie-Anne was definitely a competent pianist; had Skipton not already known how to play, she would be his first option for a maestra. He feared what lessons must be like, though. Julie was a strict teacher when it came to the arts; something Skipton doubted would be reined in just because her pupil was her daughter.

“Though, of course, now that you’re back…” And with that, Skipton was thrust out of his reminiscing.

“No,” he barked, pulling his hand from where it rested on the fallboard, “I don’t play anymore.” He paused, lowering his intensity. “I don’t even think I know how to, nowadays.”

“Well that’s just some humble talking, boy,” Gus responded, “You don’t just forget how to play the piano. Of course, you might be rustier than your pride would like, but—”

“Father—”

“You always were on the fluid side of technique, and—”

“Father, I said—”

“That might just be what the girl needs to—”

“I said no!” Skipton brought his fist down hard on the side arm, barely registering the searing pain that shot up in consequence. “I don’t. Play. Anymore,” he said through gritted taste, putting the throbbing ache of his hand aside.

“Of course, son,” Gus hunched back over his cane, resting a wrinkled chin on wrinkled hands. “I just thought that…Of course, son.”

Skipton watched his father collapsing in on himself with pity. Pitiful, he was pitiful. Gus was never pitiful, not when Skipton was younger. Then, he was an artist, a storyteller; as much a disciplinarian as he was a guide to youth. Now he was pitiful, though Skipton supposed that was a reading more accurate to himself. Only pitiful men tuck tail and hide for ten years; only the pitiful burn memorial rings. With a sigh, he took his attention to the piano bench.

Skipton could still remember the day he learned the top opened up on hinges. He had been calling Angus a dirty bleeding liar when his brother mentioned the bench was hinged, and Angus bet him that if Skipton couldn’t open it, then Angus wouldn’t tell their father he’d been running around using such coarse language. It was worth the smart bum and the soapy throat, though, to find that new storage space. Nearly a decade of compositions, ranging from embarrassingly novice to passable for The Halls, was held in that bench from then on.

Curious, and wanting to distract himself from his father, Skipton crouched down to push it open. He was met not with an avalanche of neglected notation paper, but with two small, neat stacks. One was a collection of published music, the other a miniature tower of paper with scrawling penmanship. It took but a cursory glance-over for Skipton to know these were not, in fact, his. He grabbed the top sheet, only to reveal an accordion of taped pages. Hesitant, guilty, he turned back to his father, keeping the top page in his hand.

“Are these…” He realized, after starting, that he had no name to attribute.

“Yes,” Gus said, raising his head slightly to see the cascading sheet music. He smiled, faintly. “If I recall correctly, she found one of yours while we were cleaning out that bench. She made it her goal to write one herself.”

Skipton laughed, impressed by the child’s determination. “And this is?”

“The latest iteration. Note, if you will, the…expressionistic route of assigning measure length by phrase.”

“She’s only eight, father,” Skipton replied, gently replacing the stack.

“Six.”

Skipton glanced over his shoulder. “Hm?”

“Six. She’s six years old.”

“Oh,” Skipton said, returning his attention to the bench. He didn’t like the new arrangement; it all seemed too sterile. What was the point of storing music in the bench if corners weren’t poking out, if you didn’t have to force the top closed before you could sit on it? “Where are mine?”

“In your bedroom, I believe. Angus was the one to move them, he’d know better than I.” It was a good thing that Gus could not see the face his son made at this news; he would surely have some reprimand ready to whip out.

“Tell me you _at the very least_ made sure he actually took them up there. Because if he pawned off any of them to his clients, I swear I will—”

Footsteps echoed from the Entryway, down through the Gallery, and into The Great Room, and Skipton turned, rising to see Angus making his way down the corridor.


	3. The Upstairs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Glances at my last 2-week goal*  
> *Looks at the date*  
> *Sweats*  
> Sorry about that.  
> In other news, morbidity begins making a peeking appearance in this chapter. TW for a brief depiction of emotional and sensory overload that becomes a partial flashback, and brief rumination on death, including an implication of suicide.

Footsteps resounded for minutes before Angus appeared at the entrance to The Great Room. What he saw there honestly wasn’t too far from what he’d predicted, perhaps even tamer. No sheet music thrown to the ground in a frantic search for old works, no books disturbed from their dust casings; everything seemed in its place, save of course for the rotated chair and piano bench. Skipton rose from his half crouch, dropping the top page in the accordion-fold back down into the bench and pushing the seat down, never breaking eye contact with his brother.

“Father said you moved my compositions,” He skipped over any attempt at a greeting. “I’d like to be sure they’re all accounted for.”

“And hello to you, too,” Angus, muttered, shuffling to the side as Skipton made his way across The Great Room.

“You say that like you were any kind of talkative before,” Skipton said, shouldering his brother further to the side, “I won’t be troubling you further, I just want to check my room.” In a number of strides, he was almost halfway to the front stairs. Without looking back, he closed the distance and ascended to the second storey alone.

“Has Cettie finished her bath,” Gus asked from his chair, “She seemed quite eager to meet him.”

“She has,” Angus sighed, “But she’ll have plenty time to meet him after supper.”

“I think they could both be of benefit to each other,” Gus said, “Maybe the lethargy and mania will cancel each other out.”

Angus shook his head, a tired chuckle escaping him. “Let her be, father. If she’s not wild at six, what will she be at sixteen?”

“Married like Anne Hathaway.” Gus’s remark was met with a smoldering glare.

“And what’s his excuse, then,” Angus bristled, turning back to look at the empty stairway. “He up and disappears for eight years, not even a word from the Estate, then suddenly a letter? And even more suddenly he traipses in like he didn’t—” Angus pinched the bridge of his nose tightly, exhaling a sharp sigh. “Lethargy doesn’t prompt that kind of avoidance, father. We may well be mixing mania with more of the same.”

“I still say it could do them both some good,” Gus huffed, “Could do all of us some good.”

Skipton’s hand barely skimmed the rail as he hurried up the steps, a nervous kind of anticipation building at the thought of seeing his old room once more. The steps flew under him, two at a time as he rounded the gradual curve of the staircase. The stair runner seemed to propel his flight, and excitement only grew as the next storey came into view. Oh, to have a second storey again! To have more than three rooms, to have a staircase to ascend! It felt as if he were a child once more, racing against Angus, Father, whatever scotch friend would indulge the boy, all to get to the top of the stairs. Older now, and far taller, somewhere in Skipton’s mind it registered that his signature flying dive would no longer yield its desired effect, but that couldn’t curb his renewed sense of pure euphoria. He was home again, and nothing could take that joy away; not Father and his pity, not Angus and his being, and certainly not Julie-Anne and the child. He pushed off, three steps from the top, meeting the floor with a victorious, satisfying thud and creak as the wood met his shoes. Skipton threw up his hands in triumph, undoubtedly having beaten a red and blustering imaginary Angus to the top.

He surveyed the foyer below him, finally allowing it to sink in that he was back in London, that he was back home. He gripped the handrail tight, leaning over the balcony to simply stare at the ground below where he had just stood. Berneray was gone; that horrid hut of a house was gone. He was a faithless hermit no longer. Skipton breathed a sigh of relief, running a hand through his hair. His was the bedroom on the right, the only one with the door clearly manufactured in the past decade. He just had to walk through and it would all be real. His things would still be there, he could unload what little he carried with him, and it would be final. He was home.

There was one hitch in this plan, namely, the overlooked keyhole just below his door’s knob. Skipton had nearly thrown himself off the balcony from the recoil by the time he noticed this not-so-innocuous little roadblock. He’d never needed a key before; who was he supposed to ask? He’d sooner die than ask Angus, but would his father have it in his state? That only left Julie-Anne that Skipton could turn to and, though he doubted she’d have it on her person now, he figured it worth a try. He stood and listened for noises, trying to figure out if they’d moved the Nursery, or if they’d decided to graduate his niece early. Skipton saw no sign of any domestic assistance, and both her parents were driven enough that he could believe a six-year-old staying in her own bedroom. There was a dripping noise; he crossed the balcony and peered into the bathroom, door left slightly ajar after the bath; the small room was pitch dark, so he closed it and listened for any other noises. To his left he could hear the sound of heavy things being shifted and little steps on the floor; she was in the nursery, after all. The door was shut, but upon closer inspection Skipton saw none of the same keyholes to enforce this.

With a short knock, he gave the knob a slight turn and push, opening into a gathering very early in its preparation. Skipton could see a wooden table clearly dragged across the carpeted floor to its position now in the centre of the room. The paper had been re-laid, though he only noticed due to the vibrancy of its color. An attempt to recapture what had been there before, the new paper was a soft yellow, decorated with a pattern of branches, leaves, fruits, and birds. The color nearest the floor had taken on a very washed-out nature, and Skipton noted the absence of any paints or crayons.

Standing in shock before him was his niece: a small girl with still-damp hair that couldn’t help but curl near the ends. She stared up at him with those wide eyes, clutching a French Lady to her chest. Already beginning to take their seats at the table were a small assortment of China-head dolls, a hastily-robed and dripping Frozen Charlie that Skipton vaguely remembered from his own youth, and a matryoshka and her smaller components. Her lips parted, trying to remember the proper words to say to this uninvited guest. She looked to her Lady for guidance, but found nothing of substance could be gained. Instead, she and Skipton stared at each other in a petrified state of awkwardness.

“Oh, where, oh, where is the hostess,” a shrill voice shot out from the nursery bedroom as Julie-Anne came out, carrying a Steiff elephant and monkey, speaking in-character for the little primate. “I must say,” she continued, now putting in a baritone for the pachyderm, “It’s most inconvenient to take the time we took, only to—” She stopped only a few steps out, eyes locked in surprise on Skipton, lips immediately pursed and face self-conscious.

“I, ah, I’m sorry to intrude,” Skipton finally spat out, straightening his posture and taking a proper step into The Nursery, “But I was wondering, Julie, if you might—”

“Mummy’s busy right now,” The girl interrupted, clutching her Lady even tighter, “We’re having tea.”

“Manners, Celeste,” Julie-Anne chided, quickly setting down the toys on the table, “You don’t interrupt when adults are speaking, much less when they aren’t speaking to you.” Celeste scowled but held her tongue, settling instead to twirl her dress at the knees, pouting all the while. Julie sighed, looking back to Skipton with a tired smile. “You were saying?”

Skipton floundered, having already forgotten his question due to the judgement of a little girl. “I was, ah…I meant to…” he gestured vaguely towards the balcony, attempting in vain to remember just what it was called that unlocked doors, and why he needed it. Julie-Anne gave him a concerned look, moving to touch his shoulder.

“Skipton,” she said, “Are you feeling alright?” He pulled back away from her touch, almost retreating to the balcony, still struggling to parse out the proper words.

“I,I, I…Key,” he mumbled.

“Come again?”  
“Uh—ah…Key.”

Celeste perked up, her ears hearing, as children’s ears often do, a slight distortion of the truth that better fits their own desires. “Tea,” she gasped, rushing forward to pull at her mother’s dress with her free hand. “Mummy, he wants to join our tea party!” She raced back to the table, dropping her French Lady with the least required care onto its surface before she appeared in an instant before Skipton, clasping his hand in both of hers and guiding him to the table. “We still need seat cushions down for all the guests, so you can stand for now,” she explained, standing him right where she wanted him, “Oh, Charles will _love_ having another man here!” She picked up the worn ceramic boy, placing him uncomfortably close to Skipton on the table.

Julie-Anne walked over to Skipton, finally able to lay her hand on his shoulder. “I’m rather certain you didn’t say _tea_ ,” she grinned, giving him a gentle squeeze. “What is it you were really needing?”

Skipton glanced around the table, taking in what all had been properly set up. Nowhere near enough teacups compared to the number of guests, and a great many chips and cracks in the ones that were there. Another look to the Frozen Charlie at his side, and Skipton knew he had been successfully trapped in the social niceties of a young girl’s tea party. There was no way to gracefully bow out, not if he wanted to meet his niece on the right foot, so he shook his head, moving Julie-Anne’s hand from his shoulder.

“It’s alright,” he said, “I might need the practice for supper.” Skipton shot Julie-Anne a grin; soft, gentle; playful, even. “I’ll just sit in for a while.” Julie-Anne gave him a skeptical look, but didn’t push it.

Instead, she turned her attention over to her daughter, who was re-emerging from her attached bedroom with armfuls of small cushions and pillows. “Mummy,” she called out, eyes hidden by the seating in her hands, “Set this one out for the gentleman!” Julie-Anne sighed, giving Skipton another tired smile.

“What is our special word, young lady,” she asked, already bending over to pluck up a pillow.

“Please-and-thank-you,” Celeste parroted, watching the pillow’s departure expectantly. It was set at Skipton’s feet as Julie-Anne went back to the bedroom, emerging with a small, wooden chair. “This was going to be for Charles, but since you’re older you get to sit on it instead,” the girl said, gesturing for him to sit down. Briefly checking, over the shoulder, for confirmation from the girl’s mother, he promptly took his seat, turning his companion away just enough so he didn’t stare straight into the man’s nervous soul. Julie-Anne took her seat on Skipton’s other side, arranging the nesting dolls more properly round the curve of the table.

Celeste took her pillow and sat opposite of Skipton, seemingly unaware of the lack of any kettle; though, Skipton reasoned, it could very well be that the tea was already poured, and this was to be a near-fully imaginative experience where he was not only uninvited, but late. The Elephant was to Charlie’s other side, his monkey companion beside the pachyderm. Filling the rest of that gap were the lady dolls, some rag, some china, and one French. The sun in its descent shone through the windows, casting the party in a comforting, yet harsh, light. Skipton adjusted his posture, resting his weight more evenly against his calves as he sat at attention.

He was among the lucky few graced with a chipped cup; the others included, of course, the young hostess, but also the largest of the nesting dolls, and the ragdoll beside the French Lady, such that the cups made a cross on the table. All the same, Skipton did not touch his cup, watching instead for any cue from Celeste. She only stared intently back. He reached out, a false start, before pulling back and laying his hand once again on his lap. Celeste turned to the doll beside her, whispering and shooting glances across the table. Julie-Anne gave Skipton an apologetic look; hardly back an hour and he was already roped into the trial of a tea party with Celeste, where the rules are as much a toss-up as whether or not Angus would really end up investing in another incandescent lamp.

She leaned over to his ear, shielding her mouth from her daughter’s judging eyes as she whispered. “What is it you need?”

“A key,” he whispered back, no longer in a mood to play this tense game of niceties, “To my room.” Julie-Anne’s eyes widened with realization, and she held up a finger up to his face. There was a bright, almost excited look in her eyes as she turned away, producing a key from her shawl. She presented it to him with a grin, holding it out to him, proudly.

“It’s a Skeleton Key,” she whispered, unable to hold back a smile. “You can give it back to me later tonight.” Skipton took the key, and she leaned over more fully, finally sneaking in another embrace, clutching tight round his shoulders.

Celeste regarded the adults with incredulity. What right had they to begin whispering and giving gifts before anyone had even sipped their tea? And besides, until this point she’d only seen parents exchange small gifts and bright smiles. She’d been told this was her uncle, though, so, perhaps it was alright? All confusing, if you asked her, and quite rude that she wasn’t involved. Celeste huffed audibly, glaring at the two adults in annoyance. Mother turned to look, with a face fit to begin scolding, before Celeste put on the indignant pout.

“We’re _supposed_ to be having a Tea Party,” she said pointedly, glaring at her rude guests. Julie-Anne sighed, smiling slightly and allowing a light chuckle to come out. She tried to meet her daughter’s eyes before melting back into a short series of chuckles, holding up her hand to quiet herself.

“So sorry, dear,” she said, “but Uncle Skipton has to go now. You and I can-you and I will just have to make do.” She nudged Skipton, rather harshly, who stood up rather clumsily.

Meeting the young girl’s glare with an uncomfortable half-smile, he stumbled over and out of the room, clutching the key tight within his palm. His legs were shaking as he made his way around the balcony, hand lightly tracing the rail, fingers quivering. He stopped just in front of the door, steadying his hands as much as he could to make key meet lock. He listened for the sound of a click, for the lightening of the handle as the device unlocked. He barely kept from throwing the door open, so eager for the rush of light from the windows. He was met instead with total darkness.

Skipton peered in, genuinely confused. His eyes adjusted to the dark, somewhat, able to make out drawn curtains, and the outline of his bed and bookcase. He shut the door unthinkingly, only realizing once it was done that he hadn’t found the pole to light the lamp above him. With an annoyed sigh, he ran his hand along the wall. There was a pause when Skipton brushed a new knob on the wall, fingers meeting with a curious new device. Uncertain, he flipped a small, thin switch.

With a crackle and a spark travelling up a hidden wire, his room’s chandelier was lit with quite a literal flash. The room was filled with an alien kind of light; obviously unnatural, and without the comforting flicker of the gas lamps downstairs. Skipton stared up at the new brightness, amazed, before he realized the view this would now offer him. He went first to the curtains, anxious to part them. He found the fabric far heavier than he remembered; far darker as well. Undeterred, he pulled them apart from each other. There had been a door there; an entry to a slightly narrow deck to overlook the neighborhood. In his youth, that deck had been many things: a forbidden enticement, a sure hiding place, a location for proper inspiration, and, somewhat ironically, his most private haven. The door was barred shut; the handle still knocked off.

Skipton furrowed his brow, testing the door even if he knew better. Unsurprising as it was, the door refused to give. Pushing the curtains back further, what light the windows could still catch added little to the artificial brightness of the room. He turned instead, looking to the bookshelves to see what was still there. On one shelf, rows upon rows of pulp and leather spines filled half the space; on the rest of that shelf, and essentially all of the other, amateurly-bound manuscripts and piles of notations filled in the spaces. Skipton reached out, trembling, to grab the bottom-most composition. He didn’t need to read the rest of them, he remembered well enough the general summary of phases his work had gone through: illegible scrawling to pretentious faux-classicalism; bawdy Hall music to truly competent cantatas. But this last one…

It had only been some days after the funeral, and Skipton hadn’t yet given up trying to put on any face resembling a strong one. He had tried to channel it all; the anger, the sorrow, the shock that had yet to even hint at subsiding, all of it he tried to put into notation. It stung him to look at, now. He’d long since found his footing in the act of notating, every note head and stem was placed perfectly readable, neatly divided into the proper meter; accidentals matched key signature, and dynamics seemed to have been placed appropriately for whatever his desired effect may have been. On an aesthetic level, it was a perfectly fine piece of work, it was passable on the technical as well. And yet looking harder, pressing on the narrative arc of the music, it was an unintelligible mess. No instrument, of throat or wind, could ever achieve the range displayed on this paper; leaps of many octaves, no time for recovery in-between, and no indication of any more voices than one. It was a beautifully scrawling mess; an articulated ballad of a broken mind.

Skipton practically threw the papers back to the shelf, shaking his head in an attempt to forget it all over again. He didn’t want that score back; he didn’t want that memory back. He stumbled, a lightheadedness creeping in that was only worsened by the brightness in the room. Auras began intruding on his vision, floating splotches of a moving blackness clotting up his sight; no amount of head shaking could dispel the shapes, instead only worsening his dizziness. Feet were moving, but he couldn’t register the movement; eyes were open, but he couldn’t see past the floor and the auras. Legs met with wood, and he fell over himself onto the bed, sending up a thick cloud of dust.

Head met cushion with no softness, but pain or none Skipton couldn’t feel it. He stared up at the light, auras still covering his perception. In an instant his own switch was flipped, and he drew into himself entirely. Eyes squeezed shut, legs drawn into the chest, and hands grasping his head desperately; heavy, ragged breaths sucked in tears, snot, and sweat. That score, that damned score…he could hear the nights spent hunched over the piano, frantically trying to hammer the written madness to fruition; the yelling back and forth at whoever it was telling him to go to bed that night. He could hear the rain in the cemetery as his casket was lowered down; the hollow noises of mutual condolences following the ceremony. He could feel the piano keys, almost convinced his fingerprints had been etched into the instrument; the bottle that had long since ceased its sweating. He could feel the child’s tears staining his shoulder; the moment in midair when he tripped, rushing the boy inside and away from the scene.

There was someone at the door; someone knocking; someone saying something Skipton couldn’t make out. Eyes shot open, and auras dissipated; head shot up, and hearing slowly returned. Footsteps up the stairs, more knocking and then some. Yelling, both from a male voice and a female one. The door was opened, hitting the wall with a slam. Angus stood in the doorway, eyes gleaming as he scanned the room, finally landing on the bed, where Skipton sat, disheveled and panicked. Angus found him and immediately deflated, urgency turning to angered incredulity.

“Are you serious,” he hissed out, pushing his hair back out of his face, staring at his younger brother with an imperceptible emotion. Skipton stared back at him, still quite dazed. Just behind Angus, he could make out Julie-Anne; her earlier excitement was gone, replaced by terror and dread. Celeste was watching from her doorway, confused and scared. Skipton took it all in as he hunched over, guilt sinking down on him. He’d caused this; whatever happened, he’d done it, and now they were all wound up over him.

“I—” Skipton couldn’t find the words he wanted, “I’m alright.” Angus stared back, eyes searching his brother for a better truth.

“Obviously,” was his response. He turned back to Julie-Anne, taking her arms in his hands and placing a kiss on her forehead. He whispered something Skipton couldn’t make out, something Julie-Anne accepted or at least acknowledged with a quick motion of the head. Angus disappeared back down the stairs with one last glance to the man on the bed, looking out into the house like a rabbit from its burrow. Julie-Anne tracked the descent until the main curve, before she turned her attention to Skipton, moving hesitantly to his doorway.

“Skipton,” she asked it, just leaning into the room. “I think…I need that key back, now.”

On her request, Skipton’s hands opened, and he realized that somewhere in the chaos the key had been dropped, or placed somewhere else. He rolled off the side of his bed, stumbling to the bookcases. No key. He got on his hands and knees, searching along the wall where he’d first flipped the switch. No key. Crawled across the room to the door and curtains. No key. With shaking legs, he pushed himself back up, searching now into his pockets. There it was, pressed against the only other contents. He wrapped his fingers around the key, carrying it over to Julie-Anne with an outstretched arm. She took it, fear palpable as she clasped his hand in hers. Sweat met sweat, and trembles combined as the key passed palms, and Skipton stepped back with his lips pressed thin into a flat, close-mouthed grimace. Julie-Anne stood in place, hands tight around the key, watching him with a sharp uncertainty.

“I’m going to… stay up here until tomorrow,” Skipton muttered, stumbling against the room’s threshold. “I think it would be better that way.” Julie-Anne didn’t move but to furrow her brow, watching him with lingering concern. “I’ll be fine,” he said, himself unconvinced, “you ought to prepare for supper, Julie.” Julie-Anne drew a long, shaking breath, clenching her fist.

“Keep the door open, and you have a deal.” Skipton nodded, and retreated further into the room, leaving the door wide open. She watched him as he backed up, deciding at the last moment to afford him a small privacy by pulling the door halfway shut.

“Mummy,” Celeste piped up from her Nursery, suddenly very meek, “What happened to him?” Julie-Anne simply ushered the child back into her room, leaving the door open just a crack.

Skipton dropped onto the bed yet again, staring up at the ceiling; the old white tile was tainted yellow, either by age, the lighting, or some combination of both and more. He couldn’t remember if it had ever been that yellow before. How long had he been on the bed before? It had seemed like just a moment, yet the light from the windows had essentially vanished by now. Did they think he’d died? Perhaps by the wire overhead? It did cause quite an eyesore now that he knew its presence, and he didn’t doubt it could well have done him in if he’d brushed against it earlier. He didn’t know how else he would’ve done it; the doorway out was locked, after all.

He’d never see Angus that flustered again, Skipton knew that much. He smirked to think of his face, nearly drained of colour; his hair a light mess and his coat ever so slightly askew. When would Skipton ever get the chance to see him that way once more? But then, was seeing that worth the fright he clearly gave the women? Julie-Anne looked ready to burst into tears, and the poor child…she must have been so confused, so scared… Skipton sat up, suddenly out of good humour. He patted his pockets, feeling for his small, precious cargo. They were there, he assured himself, and so he set them upon the nightstand.

First was the trinket; a sterling money clip from Victor’s trip to America. This was stood first on the table, before the photograph was added. That was a cyanotype; a well-folded, well-worn photo taken the day of Victor’s wedding; it was of the cousins together, stood with arms slung over each other’s shoulders, smiles undeterred by the time needed to take the original photograph. Hands already shaking, the small print was quickly placed on the night stand, leaned against the clip to stand it up.

There was nothing else motivating Skipton to push through the day. Almost a week of restless preparation and travel, just to muck up his return home in a matter of hours. He rose, walking to the wardrobe. The cupboard had gained its own layer of dust, much like the rest of the room; this gave hope, if nothing else, that there would be some sleepwear still held within. The doors were opened, and Skipton remembered just why he’d once written asking for mothballs in Bernerary. The pests littered the floor of the wardrobe, poor things had likely suffocated trying to get out of the nearly entombed closet. No longer optimistic, Skipton leaned in, perusing the hangers to see if any jackets were salvageable. There was, at most, one appropriate for promenade, and one that, if he had to stretch it (And it looked now like he would), could be worn both for Morning and Supper.

Uninterested in culling his trousers, Skipton turned instead to the middle drawer, where the stench of long-since-disappeared mothballs remained pungent. It was enough of a struggle to open that Skipton was sure nothing would be _too_ disrupted, but he pulled out the nightgowns from a distance. The first one he retrieved was a bit eaten at the bottom, and holding it up it seemed a bit short at the hem, but it would do.

His clothes were changed in a matter of moments. Skipton laid out his trousers and shirt at the foot of his bed, as had been his habit for the last ten years, and, keeping as far a distance as he could, flipped the switch on the wall again, cutting off the incandescent lamp. There was still light of the evening providing him visibility, which Skipton used to properly situate himself in bed. He laid under the covers, staring yet again at the ceiling, which had gone from yellow to a dull-ish, dark-ish, grey-ish orange. There was creaking as mother and daughter descended the stairs. So there was supper. After that, if Skipton remembered correctly, would be family recreation in the Great Room; the girl would be put to bed after a while, and the grownups would spend as long as they wished discussing matters amongst themselves. It would be a long while before sleep would find him.


End file.
